Sorting Dreams from Reality
by holleyriddle
Summary: Set during the movie Hannibal, just after Clarice has been suspended from the FBI. Doctor Lecter sneaks into her house that night, and this is a one-shot about what happens. I have slightly altered the events in the movie.


Disclaimer & Author's Note: The amazing characters below belong to Thomas Harris. I am merely borrowing them. I am slightly altering the events of the movie _Hannibal_. Hope you enjoy! Reviews are appreciated.

* * *

Clarice Starling's kitchen was dim in the twilight, but she did not bother with flipping a switch. Her eyesight was impeccable, and all she needed was to pick out a bottle of cheap whiskey to drink. Thinking the name _Paul Krendler_ or the word _suspension _made her want to vomit. She only wanted the whiskey for two purposes – to give her a good buzz and hopefully knock her out.

She poured herself a small glass of Ten High with no ice and carried it into her living room. Stretching out on the recliner, she replayed the dialogues with Hannibal Lecter over and over in her head. Clarice did not even need the tapes anymore; she had nearly memorized them all. She took them willingly as a distraction from the day's debacle, knowing it would be difficult to face reality tomorrow. But, why _not_ put it off until tomorrow? Especially since she had no idea when things would go back to normal.

Time was meaningless to her now, and she did not know if it took five minutes or an hour for her to pass out. It did not seem to take very long at all for her eyelids to droop and her head to become heavy. _What's in this stuff?_ she thought, eyeing the glass suspiciously. It couldn't have been that strong on its own – no matter. It was doing what she wanted it to do.

Hannibal Lecter's voice and intense, blue eyes were the last things she thought about before she fell asleep, the empty glass still in her hand.

* * *

Hannibal found it all to easy to break into the FBI agent's house – well, make that former FBI agent. He had seen the news while he was out getting cooking supplies. The short interview with Krendler that they had shown angered him. He could tell Krendler was full of it (and himself); it was evident not only in his insincere eyes, but the way he talked. Hannibal looked forward to filleting him later.

He carried a box of Gucci shoes in his arms that he had brought back from Italy and placed them on the coffee table in Clarice's living room.

He saw Clarice safely asleep in the recliner. He became breathless just for a moment at the sight of her – her body was curled into the fetal position as she slept, and she had a half-smile on her face. He wondered if perhaps she was dreaming of him. Smiling to himself at the thought, he decided to have more of a look around the house.

Indeed, he had been here earlier, but he had only had time to add something special to her drink. His intuition had told him she would be drinking from that bottle of atrocious bourbon. He made a mental note to himself to bring her some nicer liquor. Perhaps he could throw in some of the nice wine he had brought back from Italy too. True, he had intended to drink it himself, but he would gladly give it up for her to experience. It sounded as though she needed it more than he did, with all that was going on.

Going into her bedroom, he picked up various things and took in their scent, but was careful to place them back exactly as he had found them. On her bedside table was a picture of her father, smiling and holding up a fish he had caught from the lake behind him. Of course. It was a logical thing to be near where she slept; Hannibal was sure she thought of her father many times every day.

Hannibal caressed her bed covers lightly, slipping his hand under the sheets. He leaned down to take in the scent of her pillow. It smelled like that skin cream she used. The comforter was lavender, a nice, feminine color. It looked and felt cheaply made, as if she had gotten it at some department store like Walmart or Target. He made a quiet "tsk, tsk" noise, thinking that he could give her so much better. But Clarice was not a materialistic girl, which was admirable. And he knew that regardless of the pay, or how badly she was treated, she would always be an FBI agent in her heart.

Going back into the living room, Hannibal had to take another look at her as she slept. He hadn't meant to linger here for so very long, but it was difficult not to. He had things to do, but suddenly they did not seem so important as he listened to her steady, deep breathing. He removed the whiskey glass from her hand and placed it gently on the coffee table, next to the shoes.

Clarice did not stir as Hannibal sat on the edge of the recliner to stroke her hair, then her face, as he had wanted to do for so long. He kissed her cheek softly, knowing he had to put the phone near her and make his departure soon. Things to do. No, Clarice was more important…

He leaned back down to brush her neck with his lips and placed tender kisses on it, unsure of what he would do if she woke and caught him. Hannibal enjoyed being in risky situations, though, so the thought did not scare him. He took the time to admire the freckles on her face in the pale moonlight, wanting to count and kiss each one individually. The only thing stopping him was that they were so small and clustered together, making them difficult to count.

Clarice made a small sound in her throat, a kind of "hmm?" and shifted slightly. The sight of her long legs in the shorts she slept in made all kinds of thoughts come into Hannibal's mind, but he did his best to control himself. Looking down, he admired her shapely feet. They would look good in the shoes he had gotten for her. He got up from the recliner and kneeled on the floor to take a closer look at them.

He gently massaged the soles of both her feet before moving on to her toes, each one of which he kissed. Clarice's deep breathing assuring him that she was still sound asleep, he placed the big toe of her right foot into his mouth and sucked it. A little, quiet moan escaped him, and he told himself to stop. But he didn't stop. He ran his hand up her smooth calf, breathing her name.

Clarice's breathing had changed slightly, and she was partially awake. She had always been a light sleeper. In her groggy state, however, she was interpreting this as being part of her dream. It was certainly a nice dream, too. She shivered a little as he ran his hand up her leg, and he stiffened at her motion. Looking up, he saw her eyes were still closed, her face calm.

"Hello, Clarice," he said softly, before moving up to kiss her thigh.

"Hi," she replied, as if this happened every night. As if it were perfectly normal.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked, testing her to see how conscious she really was.

"Yes."

Either she was mistaking him for someone else, or she was so out of it she did not care that someone from the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list was in her home, fondling her. "Say my name," he whispered.

"Doctor Lecter." She rolled over, giving him a lovely view of her rear end. "What do you think of that case file?" she mumbled.

He chuckled a little. So perhaps she had been dreaming about him. "Clarice, I think it's high time that we do away with the formalities, don't you? Please call me Hannibal."

"Okay, Doctor."

He shook his head, still smiling. _Old habits die hard_, he supposed.

To stop himself from being tempted to think more dirty thoughts, or worse, act on them, he moved around to face her front half, sitting on the edge of the recliner again. He went back to stroking her hair contentedly. After a few moments, he asked, "What were you dreaming about, Clarice?"

"What are you talking about? This is still a dream."

"Do you dream of me often?"

"You already know the answer to that, Doctor."

He watched her, surprised as she moved until her head was resting in his lap. "That's better," she murmured. "This stupid chair isn't very comfortable. My neck will probably hurt once I wake up."

Without another word, he stood and scooped her up from the recliner. Her head rested against his shoulder, and she muttered, "What're you doing now?" Clarice did not sound concerned, merely curious.

"Taking you to your bed, Clarice. Don't you think you would be more comfortable there?"

"Yes."

Hannibal did not move immediately. He stood there, enjoying the feel of her body in his arms. It fit there perfectly. It was difficult for him to take that first step to her bedroom, the place where he would have to let go of her again. And leave, very soon. _Things to do_, he reminded himself.

Once in the bedroom, he laid her down on the cheap comforter. Not wanting to wake her further by moving her under the sheets to be warm, he pulled up a throw from the foot of the bed and reluctantly covered her beautiful body. "I've got to go now, Clarice," he told her, placing the most tender kiss on her forehead. "I expect we'll be talking again soon. If you behave, maybe I'll even cook dinner for you," he added with a smirk, thinking again of Krendler's stupid face.

"Okay, Doctor." She stretched her hand out, reaching for him – a gesture that made his heart beat a little faster.

He entwined his fingers with hers for a few seconds, then went to get the cordless phone and placed it on the table next to her, right beside the picture of her father. Clarice went back to being fully asleep within minutes, her hand still outstretched.

* * *

Clarice awoke early to the sound of the phone ringing. It took her several seconds to become oriented, though she was sure she had not left the phone on the bedside table. In fact, she did not even remember going back to lie down in her bed. That whiskey was some strong stuff. Maybe she had mistakenly had a different kind. She knew the Ten High wasn't that effective – especially not just one glass of it.

She groped for the phone on the table without looking at it and clicked it on once she had a hold on it. "Agent Starling," she answered out of habit. Her dreams were coming back to her gradually, and she had a weird feeling in her stomach, something like butterflies, when she remembered how Hannibal had carried her to her bed in the dream. Then her heart sank as she remembered the actual events of yesterday, and a feeling of dread overwhelmed her.

"Answering the phone with a lie is not like you, Clarice. Wouldn't ex-agent Starling be more appropriate?" The voice on the other end gave her goose bumps, and she almost dropped the cordless.

She finally looked over at the bedside table, where the phone had been. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the Gucci shoes and the bottle of Amarone next to them.


End file.
